


Set Us Free

by Trobadora



Category: The Pretender (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e04 Someone to Trust, F/M, questions of trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-23 00:19:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11391429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trobadora/pseuds/Trobadora
Summary: Jarod should be used to people being unworthy of trust, but some things hit closer to home than others. - Miss Parker knows how it goes when Jarod calls her in the middle of the night, but some calls are stranger than others.





	Set Us Free

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_rck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_rck/gifts).



> This story refers to events from episode 3.04, _Someone to Trust_ , in which Jarod gets himself hired as an arsonist and becomes close to his boss's seemingly-innocent wife. But Kristi isn't what she seems, and Jarod finds himself in trouble. Don't worry if you don't remember the episode well (or at all) - everything in the story should be clear from context.

  


* * *

  


"TRUST CAN KILL YOU OR SET YOU FREE."  
— CATHERINE PARKER

  


* * *

  


**Clear Bay, North Carolina  
_now_**

Jarod put his eye to the lens of his telescope, watching as Miss Parker climbed out of a black car and strode along the street toward the uniformed woman waiting for her, Sydney and Broots following in her wake.

Miss Parker looked around, her eyes sweeping over the street and the buildings. A brief hunch of her shoulder - she was sensing something amiss; she had an excellent instinct for things like that. Jarod had always assumed it was learned, a necessity of survival in the Centre, but ever since he'd found out she was a Red File as well, he couldn't help wondering if there might be more to it than that, if somehow she could actually sense him watching.

Meanwhile, Miss Parker had already dismissed whatever she might or might not have sensed, turning to Deputy Kilborn. They were meeting at the stairs outside, and only shook hands briefly before heading up and inside to the Sheriff's Office. 

Jarod briefly closed his eyes as they passed out of his sight, listening to the voices: Miss Parker's impatient remarks, the deputy's dubious friendliness. Jarod had planted a bug on Deputy Kilborn for this, earlier today after he'd heard the Centre jet was on its way.

Maybe it was merely morbid curiosity that had him watching and listening. But he had a sense of his own, unrelated to his Pretender abilities, that this was self-defense - a necessity for his continued well-being. He needed to know how Miss Parker would react.

"You worked with Jarod Burns," Miss Parker was saying, her familiar voice only a little scratchy in his earphones.

"You mean Agent Nash," the Deputy corrected.

Miss Parker didn't miss a beat. "Obviously I do. Were you surprised to find out Jarod was an undercover agent?"

Of course she knew his second alias, the one he'd quickly concocted when he'd found himself in trouble. He'd pretended to be an arsonist to expose a wealthy landowner committing insurance fraud by having his own property burned down, and found himself impressed with the man's kind, generous wife. But Kristi had been nothing like what she'd seemed; her kindness and vulnerability had been a set-up from the start. She'd been planning to murder her own husband, and Jarod had made the perfect scapegoat. Once he'd caught up with the reality of it, he'd quickly turned his supposed arsonist background into an undercover identity. It had been sloppier work than usual; Broots had tracked him down quickly enough. 

And now Miss Parker was posing as an arson investigator to get the sheriff's department to talk to her, tell her what he'd been up to. 

"Less surprised than I should have been." Jarod could hear the smile in Deputy Kilborn's voice. She was smart, clear-eyed, determined; he was sure she'd go far, now that the corrupt sheriff was out of the way. "Something wasn't adding up. But when the sheriff, the millionaire and the millionaire's wife all turn out to be arsonists or in league with arsonists, no wonder the person who _looks_ like an arsonist is actually FBI."

"Whatever," Miss Parker said, ungracious as ever. "It's not Jarod's actions we're interested in, anyway. We didn't come all the way to the Crystal Coast just to talk about him." She made a good show of sounding like she meant it, too. Jarod could well imagine Broots's suppressed double-take at the statement, Sydney's smile, and Miss Parker studiously ignoring both reactions. She couldn't see Jarod's own uneasiness, but no doubt if she could, she'd treat it just the same. "This Kristi Kincaid - she was actually trying to use _Agent Nash_ as a patsy? Talk about bad luck."

Jarod's face tightened. Miss Parker didn't know the half of it yet, and he dreaded the moment she found out. There was nothing about Jarod Burns, or Jarod Nash, that could be of any harm to him, or any use to her - but Kristi? That was a different thing. A different kind of vulnerability. 

He dreaded it, and needed to see Miss Parker finding out. That was why he was still in Clear Bay, after all, and not half-way across the continent by now.

Movement behind the windows of the sheriff's office had him put his eye to the telescope again. Before him, Miss Parker's face took shape.

"He was a nice guy," Deputy Kilborn said suddenly. "Very serious about the truth. I think he was worried I was just looking for a scapegoat, too. An easy close to the case. And he took it pretty badly, what Mrs. Kincaid did. Sweet, really."

Miss Parker's suddenly raised eyebrow stated a clear and dismissive, _I can't believe you just said that._ But the moment was here. There was no doubt she'd hone in on this immediately.

Jarod's eye socket was aching from the pressure of the eyepiece, but he couldn't bring himself to pull back. He needed to be focusing on her, on everything he could see on her face and hear in her voice.

He needed to know it all.

  
~*~  


"Sweet," Miss Parker repeated, voice dry as sand. The things people found endearing. She'd never understand why vulnerability, why being exploited, should be _sweet_. Of course Jarod was no victim; clearly he'd turned the tables on that Kristi woman quickly and efficiently. But she'd tried. Jarod had been a prime suspect, and not just because the sheriff was in league with Kristi. How was it sweet, being affected by that? "Very interesting. And by _took it badly_ , you mean ...?"

She suppressed a smirk as the deputy shrugged uncomfortably. Had something gotten under the Pretender's skin after all? Jarod did have a temper.

"He was after the husband, you know that," Deputy Kilborn said. "He didn't have Kristi Kincaid on his radar at all. She played him like a fiddle - he comforted her after the fire, you know? It's why I thought he was shady from the start - I suspected her, and he ... Well. He defended her when the sheriff treated her as a suspect." The sheriff, Kristi's accomplice. Of course. "Jarod trusted her, and she was just looking for a convenient patsy. Yeah, he was pretty angry when he came to me. Hurt."

 _Jarod trusted her._ Miss Parker's spine tingled at the words. Trust, again. She didn't need to look at the calendar to know what else Jarod had been doing that week. He'd sent her a card quoting her mother's words: _Trust can kill you or set you free._ And while he'd sent her on a chase after Lyle's murdered mail-order bride, making her question which if any of her nearest and dearest she could trust, _he_ had put his trust in the wrong person?

"How delightful," she deadpanned, throwing Sydney an inquisitive look. A minuscule shake of the head answered her: for once, Jarod apparently hadn't called his mentor after what had to have been an upsetting experience, for someone as soft-hearted as Jarod. He _did_ insist on seeing good in people ...

 _Oh._ Of course he hadn't turned to Sydney. 

Miss Parker nearly gasped as the realization burst in on her, abrupt and sharp-edged like shattering glass.

In her memory, a telephone rang, shrill and insistent.

  


* * *

  


**Blue Cove, Delaware  
_a week ago_**

Miss Parker's hand snaked out from her blanket, reaching in the general direction of the nightstand, from where the obnoxious ringing was coming. Her eyes were gritted shut; she couldn't bring herself to force them open. She'd actually been sleeping soundly and dreamlessly, for once. Damn Jarod to hell.

Finally her hand found the phone.

"What?" she snapped into the receiver - her voice was sleep-heavy, yes, but she still managed a creditable snap. She buried the side of her face deeper into her pillow, determinedly not opening her eyes. "This had better be good, rat boy."

But the taunt or cryptic remark she expected in return didn't come. Instead, there was a long silence. 

Too long. Miss Parker, moments from drifting back to sleep, suddenly jerked wide away. She sat up, eyes slitting open, and brushed tangled hair out of her face. What was going on?

On the other end of the phone, there was only breathing. And not the obscene kind of heavy breathing - though she wouldn't put it past Jarod to have someone try that on her - but simply the distant sound of breath, only audible due to the complete silence of the night.

Wherever the call was coming from, it was quiet there, too.

"Who is this?" she demanded sharply, rubbing grit from her eyes. Not Jarod, surely? But who else would -

Finally, words, almost voiceless, sighed. "Miss Parker."

And it _was_ him, after all. A tone she'd never imagined hearing from him, but still unquestionably him. 

"Jarod? What the hell?" Miss Parker threw off her blankets, getting out of bed. This wasn't how the game was played. Something was very, very wrong.

He didn't answer immediately, and her thoughts raced as she padded barefoot over the carpet and went to pour herself a stiff drink. She had a feeling she was going to need it.

The silence bothered her more than his usual taunts and challenges and misguided appeals to her heart. She couldn't read it. Was that deliberate on his part? Was he playing with her? If Jarod was silently laughing at her -

"If you're doing this just to irritate me," she snarled, "I _am_ going to shoot you next time I see you, even if it _is_ in the middle of a bank."

He made a muffled noise that sounded like a laugh snorted out unwillingly, which wasn't exactly _him_ , but better than the silence. Miss Parker was starting to get an itch at the back of her neck - a bad one. She wanted to smash something, preferably over Jarod's head. Well, Raines's would do. Or Lyle's. No shortage of candidates, really. All of them, lined up in a row -

Instead, she took a sip from her newly-poured whisky. "What, no questions? No cryptic quotes? All out of lectures on the subject of trust, too?"

Another muffled reaction, this one more like a sharp intake of breath, but still no words. He'd said her name once, had said just enough to let her know it was him, to stop her from hanging up immediately - and then nothing. What the hell kind of game was he playing?

"Say something, or I hang up," Miss Parker threatened when he still hadn't spoken up after another sip of whisky, after she'd put the glass down and started tapping her fingernails against the window sill as she stared out into the darkness. She was itching for a smoke. " _And_ take the phone off the line."

"It's good to hear your voice," Jarod said after a moment, and she could tell he was aiming for flippancy, for sarcasm. He was missing by a mile.

Or was he? Was he doing this deliberately? She couldn't trust -

 _Damn._ If this was another one of his "lessons" she was going to shoot him for real, family secrets and rescued children be damned. Raines, the Tower and the Triumvirate together wouldn't be able to stop her from destroying their prized asset.

She really should just hang up on him. He deserved it.

"I shudder to think who you've been spending time with if you've been yearning for _me_ ," she retorted instead, responding to his intended tone more than the reality. _She_ hadn't lost her touch, after all.

And it was easier this way; it had always been.

The pause was too long again. "You may have a point," Jarod said eventually, words wearily sighed, no edge to it at all. The denial she'd expected was entirely missing.

Yearning, ha. As if.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" she asked impulsively, and was retroactively glad it had come out sounding more like an accusation than the genuine question it was. This was _bothersome_. Damn the man.

"Oh, just the usual," Jarod said, and this time he came closer to the snide tone he clearly was reaching for. "I don't know who I am, the Centre is trying to lock me in a cage to do their dirty work, and my childhood friend is chasing me with a gun. Nothing new."

She snorted. Nothing new, _right_. That was why he was breaking all the rules of the game. She didn't know _why_ exactly, but something had happened. Something had made him do this, whatever the hell _this_ was.

If she knew what had happened, she could use it. Perhaps she shouldn't hang up just yet. "What do you want from me?" she asked, not bothering to hide her tiredness. "If you need your head shrunk, go call Sydney."

"He doesn't have your talent for insults." Jarod sounded almost normal now, almost like himself.

Miss Parker had to grin. "Is that what you're looking for? Call a 900 number, I'm sure you've discovered those by now."

"Why, when you're doing it for free?"

"I'll send you a bill," she promised.

"Oh, but you'd have to find me first." 

The teasing had returned to his voice. She couldn't help herself from turning it back on him. "Come back to the Centre. I promise I'll insult you in person." 

"Oh, I have complete faith that you would." There seemed to be a tired smile in his voice now. "I'm sorry for waking you, Miss Parker. It really _has_ been good, hearing your voice." And the line went dead with a crackle.

Miss Parker let her hand fall, looked down at the receiver in confusion. What the hell had just happened?

He'd called her for a reason; he'd clearly gotten out of it what he wanted. But she couldn't begin to guess what was going on in that rat-trap of a mind. She hadn't even done anything, had said nothing but the usual banter and platitudes. 

She'd probably never find out what this had been about, either. That was Jarod for you, jabbering on about truth and trust and friendship while never fucking telling her what she needed to know. All breadcrumb trails and scavenger hunts and not a single plain answer in sight. _Damn_ Jarod for doing this to her.

"Story of my life," she muttered as she drained her glass and went back to her bed, pulling still-warm blankets over her head.

  


* * *

  


**Clear Bay, North Carolina  
_now_**

Miss Parker blinked the memory away. "I'm looking forward to having a word with Mrs. Kincaid," she announced, giving the deputy her sharpest Centre-honed smile. But her thoughts were not on Kristi Kincaid or Deputy Kilborn at all.

Jarod's bizarre phone call - that had to have been the night Kristi had betrayed him, when she'd nearly blown him up. A fine woman Jarod had picked to put his trust in: she'd murdered her husband, seduced a stranger into comforting her and making himself a suspect, and then had tried to rid herself of her accomplice the sheriff and her patsy the arsonist in one go, by killing both of them in what was supposed to look like a failed attempt of Jarod's to get rid of the suspicious sheriff.

Trusted her, had he? _Learn your own lessons, genius. Trust_ can _kill you. You should know._

He'd called Miss Parker again at the Centre the next evening, back to normal, and neither of them had mentioned what had happened. Of course her thoughts had been on Lyle and her father then, a more urgent problem to grapple with ...

Miss Parker let her thoughts drift as Sydney stepped forward to ask the deputy more questions about the various cases of arson the Kincaids had been involved in, trying to disguise that he was angling to hear about the lab rat's state of mind. She didn't need to listen; she already knew all there was to know. He'd trusted the wrong person and had been burned - very nearly literally so. And in the aftermath, he'd called _Miss Parker_. Not for the kind of conversation he generally had with Sydney when something shook his confidence - she'd heard enough of them to know. Not to talk, not for explanations about human motivation, not for answers at all, but merely to hear her voice. For _comfort._

She'd said nothing of import. She'd told him nothing he didn't already know. She'd snapped and threatened and taunted and bantered, in their usual way. And somehow, that was what he'd wanted - what he'd needed.

Normality, their own fucked-up dysfunctional antagonistic flavor of it. Had he really needed the reminder so badly? It beggared belief. What was she supposed to do with that?

After all, no matter how much he wanted it, she couldn't trust him, and he knew better than to trust her. If she made herself a trap, would he fall into it? Surely not. Kristi Kincaid had caught him unawares; he would never be less than wary when it came to anything involving the Centre.

 _Trust can kill you or set you free_ , her mother had said. What could the impossibility of trust do? It kept them all in suspended in an endless circle of suspicion and conspiracy and betrayal, but better alive and in hell than dead and free. Even Jarod believed that, or he'd have been dead a million times over by now, choosing trust over survival.

No, trust wasn't for people like them. Survival was the best they could hope for; she knew that. Perhaps escape. But never trust.

Miss Parker tapped her fingers against her skirt, wishing she still smoked. "Story of our lives," she murmured under her breath, and waved off Broots's concerned look.

  
~*~  


As Miss Parker and her companions made their good-byes, Jarod leaned back, closing his eyes. He had a feeling the telescope's eyepiece had left a permanent imprint on his skin.

He'd watched realization bloom on her face, invisible to everyone else but all too clear to him. He'd committed every minuscule reaction he could make out in her voice to memory, would - he knew - pore over it all extensively over the next days, trying to be certain. She knew now.

He had no idea what to do with this terrifying vulnerability. What had he thought, calling her like that?

He hadn't been thinking; he'd been hurting. He'd trusted Kristi, and she'd turned out to be using him. She'd seemed so kind, helping a homeless family, but it had all been part of the plan, part of the image she was projecting. She'd snared him and betrayed him, tried to kill him, even - and he, furious and hurt, had turned to Miss Parker. Miss Parker, who was hunting him for the Centre and therefore by definition an enemy, whatever else she might be to him. Childhood friend. First crush. The only person who knew what it was like, growing up in the Centre.

He'd reached for her. And now she knew. 

Of course, as if that wasn't enough, she was going to see Kristi. A shiver went through him at the thought, at everything she'd be able to read in Kristi's face, in her version of the story. 

Yes: Kristi had reminded him of Miss Parker, a good woman stuck in a bad situation she couldn't escape. Except she hadn't been; she'd been as bad or worse than her husband. Harold Kincaid had been indifferent to accidental death in the course of the arson he instigated; Kristi had been an outright murderer. He'd been wrong about her kindness, her innocence. 

Not that Miss Parker wouldn't be the first to tell him he was wrong about Miss Parker as well, thinking of her as anything other than a hunter on his trail, but he knew better than that.

But now that she knew, what would Miss Parker do with her knowledge? She knew how easily he could be seduced into trusting someone; she knew he'd turned to her in a moment of weakness; he'd made himself vulnerable to her. More so than he'd been before.

Not that she'd ever condescend to playing honeypot, even if she suspected it might work. 

_We both want the same thing,_ Jarod had told her, just last week. Trust: deadly given to the wrong person, deadlier given to no one. But he knew it was too much to ask, between them, even so. He could never fully let down his guard, and neither could she.

Trust, the kind they both craved, couldn't exist in their world. 

Just listening to her voice: that hadn't been too much. That was something he could have. 

Maybe the kind of faith he had in her, despite everything - the same she had for him; he knew she did, no matter how much she'd deny it - maybe that was a different kind of trust. He could rely on her to be herself, and he _knew_ who that woman was, ruthless and kind, bitter and yearning, driven and harsh and blunt. 

Was there a kind of trust that lived behind barbed-wire fences, behind barricades, armed and willing to fire? Could there be trust without letting down your guard?

It would have to do, this thing they had. Perhaps this, in the end, was what would set them free.


End file.
